Crossing the Lines Read online

  Someone would have to die, that went without saying. It would have to be someone who mattered to Edward McGinnity. Unlike their police procedural counterparts, amateur detectives needed a reason to investigate.

  Madeleine watched as the scene unfolded before her. The gallery was crowded with the exquisitely elegant. Thin, svelte women who glittered discreetly, whose eyes longingly followed the waiters with their silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. And men who seemed, well, less hungry. A lone cellist provided a tasteful backing to cultured conversations. Edward stood by himself with a glass of champagne, gazing somewhat distantly at one of the large modernist works on display. He looked comfortable in his dinner suit, standing naturally without the need to finger his collar or adjust incessantly. He had a good tailor, perhaps…probably. Or he wore a dinner suit often.

  Madeleine sighed. Men looked so handsome in formal attire. Hugh hadn’t worn his dinner suit since they were married. She wondered if it still fitted him.

  A young woman approached Edward McGinnity and he smiled in a way that made Madeleine’s breath catch. So this was she: the woman who would be Edward’s unrequited love. She was indeed a vision. A brunette, of course—the beautiful blonde was too cliché—soft and curved, her face was lit with an inherent mischief and an open warmth. She hugged Edward. A real hug, a genuine press, rather than some social affectation.

  “Ned, I’m so glad you’re here. I have no idea what these people are saying!”

  Edward laughed—an easy laugh, but not loud. More an extension of his smile than an expression on its own. He left his arm around her shoulders—companionable rather than possessive. “But they’re your paintings, Will,” he whispered.

  She took his glass and swigged the imported champagne. Her movements were graceful, imbued with a natural theatre. “Yes, but they’re interpreting them…with words I don’t understand so I don’t know what I’m pretending to have painted!” She grabbed his lapel. “You have to stay with me…these are your people…you understand their strange gibberish.”

  Madeleine slowed her car to a stop outside Ashwood’s grocery shop. No wonder Edward loved her—she was fabulous! But why didn’t she love him? Perhaps there was someone else.

  “I am at your service, Ms. Meriwether,” Edward said, bowing his head.

  The young artist shoved him gently. “I’m serious. Don’t leave me…not for a moment.”

  “So Elliot isn’t with you tonight?”

  She shook her head, her brow creased just slightly. “No, he hates this sort of thing. He won’t even go to his own openings.”

  Edward said nothing. Elliot Kaufman was a selfish bastard, but Willow loved him.

  She entwined her arm in his. “Shall we mingle?”

  Madeleine contemplated the scenario. The corpse would have to, of itself, drag Edward McGinnity into an investigation. It would have to be someone he cared about or perhaps someone he might have reason to kill himself—the clear-my-name motive. She already liked Willow Meriwether too much to take the former route. It would have to be the latter. Perhaps Elliot Kaufman…but that would leave Willow unspoken for. No…too much depended on Edward’s love being unrequited.

  Who else would a novelist kill? And then the answer came, in a sharp spreading burst of realisation. Of course.

  “Oh, no.” Willow tightened her grasp on Edward’s arm. “Don’t look now.”

  Edward swore, the same quaint old-world form of cursing that Madeleine had heard before.

  The man who approached them wore a kind of stylistic uniform that badged him as a man of letters and of means. A flamboyance that was both unique and standard. A screen-printed silk scarf draped around his shoulders like a shawl and his bow tie sat askew. A burgundy felt fedora was set on his head at a studiously jaunty angle. He kissed everybody he met, man and woman, with loud exclamations of delight and a three-kiss ritual that didn’t involve any actual contact.

  “He’s seen us, it’s too late,” Willow murmured. “Courage, dear one, we’ll face him together. Try not to be rude.”

  “Neddie, Willow…how are you my darlings?” Geoffrey Vogel advanced upon them with his arms outstretched as though he was accepting applause. “My congratulations, beautiful lady,” he said kissing Willow. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your little tribute to moi.” He pressed his palms together and bowed. “I am very touched and humbled.”

  “Really? Which piece was that?” Edward directed the question at Vogel as he doubted Willow would have the slightest clue.

  Vogel pointed to a painting near the fire exit. It depicted a desk by an open window. The desk was untidy, strewn with handwritten notes and crumpled pages. A yellow-faced honeyeater had, it seemed, flown in through the window to perch on a pen. It was Edward’s desk, in fact. Willow had refused to let him continue working until she’d made the sketches she’d needed. The bird had been a bonus attracted by the half-eaten honey sandwich left on top of a stack of notebooks. The use of light and shadow was characteristic of Willow Meriwether’s work. It gave what was essentially a still life a life that was anything but still. She called the piece Literatum scripius excellio. It wasn’t Latin; just some Harry Potter-inspired abomination that the artist had come up with after too much wine.

  “Of course vogel is the German word for bird,” Vogel explained with a nod at Willow. “See how the dear little chap perches upon the pen, controlling the excesses and the folly of the writer. Notice that the light falls to create an illumination which transforms the creature into a guiding light, towards which all the other writing instruments are pointed. Of course I recognised the writing on these pages…that of a certain Mr. Edward McGinnity, whose debut novel I had the privilege of editing into shape.” Vogel raised his brows and nudged Edward. “This delightful, insightful masterpiece is a very touching homage to my modest role. A wonderfully subtle work…quite breathtaking in its depth. As I said Willow, darling, I am very humbled, but the tribute is, I assure you, unnecessary.”

  Edward drained his glass of champagne and looked for another.

  “Do tell me about your latest project, Neddie. I understand that first novel we worked on together hasn’t yet been published. Pity. I thought I’d done enough, but obviously not.”

  Willow groaned audibly.

  “I pulled it, not the publisher.” Edward decided that there was no reason to keep the peace. No reason that was good enough, anyway. “I wouldn’t put my name to that penny dreadful into which you turned my novel.”

  “Ned,” Willow cautioned.

  Vogel’s lips curved up in a facsimile of cordiality, but they were white and pressed tightly together. “I understand. The editing process is brutal…not all writers survive it. So what are you doing now, Neddie?”

  Edward said nothing. Even if he was ready to share Madeleine with anyone, it would not be Vogel. The ruins of his first novel still smouldered bitterly—the characters, trapped in a manuscript defiled, haunted him. He’d abandoned them too easily, allowed Vogel to critique and strip and suggest them into silence. How he hated the man for that murder.

  Madeleine nodded as she watched. She hated Vogel, too. Killing him would be a pleasure.

  Vogel began a speech. Edward leaned over to kiss Willow’s cheek and walked away.

  ***

  He spent the next hour moodily studying the exhibition, eating from the circulating silver platters of canapés and eavesdropping as the artistic community considered and judged the works of the audacious newcomer. Edward listened, amused, as each painting was reimagined and approved. He was happy for Willow. She would not be offended that they thought her painting of the neighbour’s dog was an “exploration of self-doubt and melancholy.” She wouldn’t care as long as they bought enough to allow her to keep painting.

  “That’s the difference between your trade and mine—you need your readers to complete what you do,” she would say as he struggled to smo
oth each sentence so the words would swirl about the tongue like water. “I would still paint if the world was dark and nobody could see anything.”

  When the artist found him again, he was musing on her words and his, with a miniature vol-au-vent in each hand.

  “Give me one of those,” Willow demanded. “I can’t believe you left me!”

  “Sorry, Will…I didn’t want to cause a scene. Were you stuck with the pretentious, talentless, useless git?”

  Willow shook her head. “He left soon after you did. I’ve been stuck with people from the gallery.” She stood back and spun triumphantly, her cheeks flushed. “Apparently, I’m a sensation!”

  Edward smiled. “But of course.”

  “There’ll be speeches soon,” she said a little distractedly.

  He nodded. “It’s only fitting that your life as a struggling artist be eulogised. Who’s doing the honours?”

  “The gallery director, Paulo Cotton. And I’ll have to say something I suppose?”

  “I expect you will.” Edward was surprised she seemed so nervous. Willow Meriwether was born to lead revolutions. Addressing the masses was not something that had ever before concerned her. She pressed against him and he placed his arm about her shoulders and pulled her close.

  “You’ll be fine,” he whispered. “They’ll adore you as much as they do your work.”

  Willow sighed. “I can’t think of a single art-related joke to open with.”

  “I wouldn’t advise a joke—this is a very serious crowd. I’m not sure laughing is allowed…Hang on…” Edward rocked forward onto his toes. “What’s going on over there?”

  The commotion was restrained, dampened by gallery officials who flocked towards the fire exit.

  Willow grabbed Edward’s hand and pulled him towards the disturbance. “Let’s find out!” Her eyes shone. “Perhaps it’s a protestor!”

  As ludicrous as the supposition was, Edward found himself unable to refuse her.

  They manoeuvred through the crowd until it seemed too dense and resistant. The police had arrived now and were pushing the guests back.

  “You have to let me through…I’m the artist!” Willow cried suddenly.

  For a moment, everyone stopped, startled and confused. Willow moved quickly, sidestepping onto the landing of the stairwell and dragging Edward with her. They were jostled out again almost immediately, of course, but not before they’d seen the broken body of Geoffrey Vogel, his eyes wide and frozen. The editor’s limbs were crumpled beneath him at strange jagged angles and his head was peculiarly offset from his neck.

  Questions

  Edward waited as the police questioned Willow. It has been three hours now since Vogel’s body had been discovered. Nobody had been allowed to leave as the police gathered evidence, and questioned every person in turn. He was glad he’d been there for Willow…it was a terrible way for her exhibition to end, the triumph of her work eclipsed completely by a lurid sensation, the demise of a bloated fool. Edward did not mourn for Geoffrey Vogel.

  He yawned. It was two in the morning and he hadn’t yet had his turn in the office now being used as an interview room. Fleetingly, he wondered what his Madeleine would think of this…his protagonist was a crime-writer, after all. The death of Vogel was probably the stuff of plot and dreams.

  He could see her behind the wheel of that old Mercedes she drove, her eyes bright, her lips twitching occasionally into furtive smiles as the story came to her.

  She pulled into the drive. Smoke wafted out of the chimney—like a flag announcing that Hugh was at home. She turned off the engine, eager to tell him, to talk about the murder in her mind.

  The air was cold and clouded with her breath. The morning fog lingered, shrouding the weatherboard house and the pebbled drive with its overhanging holly oaks, into a painterly softness.

  Hugh came out to greet her. “Did you let the car cool down before you turned it off?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “You should give it a couple of minutes after a long trip, Maddie,” he said, sternly.

  “Of course,” she replied, kissing him. “You’re the only man I know who can backseat-drive without being in the car.”

  “All of us can do it, but very few have the commitment, darling.” He took her suitcase from the boot. “Jeeves made dinner—you’re just in time.”

  Edward inhaled sharply, surprised by what he’d just done. His own father had always referred to take-away as “Jeeves,” personifying convenience as a gentleman’s valet. Jeeves was also what Gerard McGinnity had called the carwash, the pizza delivery-man, and the remote control. Edward wasn’t sure why exactly he’d placed that memory into Hugh Lamond’s mouth, but he didn’t try to take it back.

  “Did Jeeves cook fish and chips or Chinese food?” Madeleine followed her husband into the house.

  Within, the home of Hugh Lamond and Madeleine d’Leon was comfortable, stylishly cluttered with whimsical pieces. The furniture was of an age that was more vintage than antique. The bookshelves were full, volumes stuffed horizontally in the gaps above the vertical spines. The walls held a tumultuous collection of paintings hung erratically but in somehow pleasing congregations. Landscapes were grouped with life drawings and portraits, oils, pastels, and watercolours, even collage.

  Madeleine dropped her satchel on the club armchair closest to the door, slipped off her shoes and padded barefoot into the bedroom. The bed was roughly made, a hasty drawing up of the eiderdown over the lumps beneath. Madeleine pulled back the covers and extracted a set of striped flannelette pyjamas from under the pillow.

  Hugh brought in her bag and she disappeared into the bathroom to change.

  Edward’s brow rose. It seemed a little odd to be so coy with one’s spouse, but it was charming in a way. And strangely seductive.

  Madeleine emerged in pyjamas already talking about her book, elation causing the words to tumble with neither pause nor breath.

  Hugh listened, following her to the kitchen and laying out plates and cutlery on the small wooden table. He plonked a parcel into the table’s centre, unwrapping the butcher’s paper to present a still-steaming meal of battered fish and fat chips. He helped himself. “Jeeves has outdone himself this time,” he said gazing happily at his overflowing plate. “Remind me to give him the afternoon off next Sunday.”

  Madeleine reached over and took a chip from his plate, though there were plenty left on the butcher’s paper.

  “So…what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About the story.”

  “I still think he should be a doctor. People love medical detectives.”

  Madeleine rolled her eyes. “Name one.”

  “Dr. Watson.”

  “He was the sidekick!”

  “I suppose that’s one way to read it.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  He chuckled. “Honestly, darling, it sounds great, but my opinion doesn’t count.”

  “It counts.” Madeleine reached for another chip.

  “Leith called, by the way.” Hugh left the table to switch the kettle on. “She wants you to have lunch with her tomorrow. Perhaps you should pass the idea by her?”

  Again Edward was surprised by the subconscious juxtaposition of reality. Leith Henry was his own literary agent and one of his oldest friends. He trusted her with almost everything, including his work. She had supported his decision to pull from publication the novel Vogel had edited into ruin, commiserated with him and inspired him anew. She knew his writing and believed in it. Her advice was sharp and insightful but gently delivered in a manner that did not incite defence. Madeleine would need someone like Leith Henry…why should she not have the original?

  He nodded slowly, pleased with the notion of anchoring her world to his, through his agent.

  “How was your day?” Ma
deleine realised suddenly that they had not yet talked of Hugh at all.

  “A nightmare, actually. I’ve had Mrs. Oswald to see me in tears.”

  “Because of Joe?” Madeleine was aware that Joe Oswald had suffered a massive stroke two weeks before. He’d survived but it seemed he was unlikely to ever recover.

  “Sort of. The old bugger had everything in his name, apparently. The poor woman can’t access anything. Joe’s not dead so the will doesn’t help.”

  “She doesn’t have his power of attorney?”

  Hugh smiled. “For a moment you sounded like a lawyer. No—Joe is only fifty-two—they didn’t expect him to have a stroke.

  “Nobody ever does. It’s why everybody should have reciprocal powers of attorney in place.”

  “Do we?”

  Madeleine squirmed. “No, we don’t. I should be the one to take care of that, I suppose.”

  Hugh grimaced. “If something happened to me, you’d need to be able to make decisions about the surgery….Pay people, insurers, hire, fire…”

  “Maybe we should have a proper lawyer draw up the documents, someone who specialises in that sort of thing,” Madeleine suggested, a little alarmed by the prospect of dealing with the ins and outs of the surgery.

  “Is that your way of getting out of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. McGinnity, we’re ready for you, sir.”

  The young policeman summoned him into the interview room just as Willow Meriwether came out. Edward grabbed her hand as they passed. “Are you all right, Will?”

  She nodded. “I’ll wait for you,” she whispered.

  He kissed her hand. “No, go home. It’s late and Elliot will be worried.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll wait.”

  “Mr. McGinnity,” the policeman said again.

  Edward went in.

  The office was furnished with a desk and a meeting table, at which sat a bloody-eyed detective and a wide-eyed constable. The melamine surface of the table was clear except for a couple of coffee mugs and beige rings where the mugs had been previously placed.